


Truly Terrible Ideas

by exbex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Genderswap, References to Suicide, Season 2 spoilers, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex





	Truly Terrible Ideas

Sherlock had never said as much, but he had found it all incredibly dull; the whispers, meaningful glances, raised eyebrows and the looks of confusion that all implied and wondered why Sherlock and Jane hid their messy and epic romance from the world. Jane hadn’t given it much of a thought at all when Sherlock was alive. It was more amusing than anything else. They didn’t even look right together; Sherlock with his long coat and high cheekbones and piercing eyes (had he actually been interested in such things) should have been placed arm in arm with a tall, languid, dark-haired beauty of an equally ethereal beauty, not a petite blonde with decidedly average hazel eyes and a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Besides, Sherlock wasn’t even her type, irritating, impractical, posh git that he was, and entirely too pretty to be actually attractive, if one was going to go by looks. They infuriated one another; would have surely strangled one another if they’d even attempted anything as more than friends, or, at the very least, driven one another even madder than they had. No, improbable matches make for terrible romances.

They do, however, make for the strongest, most vital of friendships, and this is why Jane feels like her heart is pumping lukewarm blood through her veins.

**

It’s because Jane spent the tail-end of her shift attempting to revive a young man who resembles Sherlock not at all (except for his pale skin, long limbs, and curled strands of hair) that she finds herself at Greg Lestrade’s Spartan flat six months after Sherlock’s suicide. Jane has always liked Lestrade, respected him, and, if she’s being honest with herself (and she has enough alcohol in her now to be completely honest), there’s always been an attraction there. Lestrade is definitely her type: handsome, practical, diligent, patient, and honest, without pretense. Much like he has been tonight, knocking aside tissue boxes on the table in front of the couch to make room for two glasses and a bottle of scotch, refilling Jane’s glass without having to be asked.

It’s an attraction that Jane has always quelled, since not all attractions need to lead somewhere, especially when the object of one’s attraction is first married, then recovering from a divorce, while constantly needing to appease/reign in Sherlock Holmes and his own riled colleagues. Besides, Lestrade was always so imperative to Sherlock’s, and, by association, Jane’s life, and there was nothing sensible about adding Lestrade to the list of men and women who had stormed out of Jane’s life because they couldn’t handle coming second to the man who had provided, seemingly without trying, the one thing that Jane truly needed and no one else could possibly hope to give: adrenaline, a reason to live and not just survive.

But Sherlock Holmes is dead, a fact that, in spite of Jane surviving admirably, and even beginning to remember how to live without the constant sense of chase and danger, is as raw and searing every morning that she wakes from a fitful night’s sleep as it was the moment Sherlock took his plunge from the rooftop of St. Bart’s. It takes time, people love to remind her, it’s only been six months, but their words make no sense because while they live on Planet Earth, Jane lives on Planet My Best Friend is Dead. And Jane is so weary of being so aware of that reality.

Which is why Jane presents Lestrade with a lapful of herself, her fingers in his hair and her insistent mouth on his.

“You’re drunk,” he says, grasping her arms firmly, attempting to push her back to her side of the couch.

“Not that drunk,” she responds before continuing with insistent kisses.

Lestrade pulls his mouth away from her’s. “This is not happening. Not now, anyway.”

“Why not?” Jane tries to lean in again, but Lestrade’s hands are on her shoulders now, keeping her an arm’s length away, “you want this.” It’s not entirely an assumption; she can feel the tell-tale half-hardness through his trousers.

“Because I’m saying no,” he answers firmly, and, as Jane can’t exactly argue with that, she awkwardly shifts off of his lap. After a moment, she reaches for her half-empty glass and takes a sip. 

“This is truly terrible scotch,” she says after a period of silence.

Lestrade answers with a non-commital hmm, before finishing his own scotch in one go and setting his glass back down on the table.

The audible thump it makes seems to trigger something inside of Jane, and the tears start flowing, unbidden and unappreciated, because she doesn’t want to go back to her own tiny flat, doesn’t want to wake up the next morning because there will be no Sherlock standing by the window, playing his violin, no Sherlock sulking on the couch, or perched in his thinking pose, no Sherlock demanding tea. And while Jane does want Lestrade to take her to bed and distract her for just a space of time, if she’s being honest, she doesn’t want to wake up next to him. She also doesn’t want to depend on Sherlock Holmes and the way his eyes light up with brilliance and excitement, doesn’t want to live for those almost-hidden expressions of respect and appreciation, doesn’t want to be best friends with the most infuriating but incredible person the world has possibly ever seen, but it’s too late, and a part of her hates Sherlock for it.

Jane remains grateful for exactly one thing; that Lestrade doesn’t try to comfort her, just rests one weary hand on her shoulder while she attempts to move out of the eye of her own personal storm and through the thick of it.


End file.
